


The Gift

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Sex, Bondage, Branding, Comeplay, Consent Issues, Crossdressing, Desperation, Double Penetration, Feeding, Fingerfucking, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Physical Abuse, Polyamory, Rimming, Sensory Deprivation, Threesome, Voyeurism, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam takes a breath. Another. Then... “You bought me a slave.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about slavery - the full ownership of one person by another. It's set in an alternate universe where slavery is commonplace and accepted, and all the characters are accustomed to it as a normal way of life. As such, there are aspects of dehumanization that some readers may find unsettling or distasteful. I encourage readers to really consider if this is something that will keep you from enjoying the story.
> 
> Obviously, slavery is not something I condone in reality or would wish upon any of the real people the characters are based on. That's one of the wonderful things about fiction - it allows us to play with the dark and the twisted, to explore those things in a safe world of the unreal. This story goes to dark places, but I hope that if you choose to come with me, you will find the journey a rewarding one.
> 
> \- Sarah
> 
> 4/5/13 - very unlikely I'll continue this. Sorry, guys! Serves me right for posting WIPs.

Dessert is chocolate.

It's their fifth anniversary, and dessert has been chocolate every time, mousse and cheesecake and brûlée, a well-loved tradition, the one day they forget about counting calories and just enjoy. And besides, Adam thinks to himself, chocolate always tastes better when he's licking it out of his boyfriend's mouth.

Sauli grins and lifts the napkin out of his lap to wipe at his lips. "You're making a mess again," he scolds playfully, his eyes shining in the candlelight.

Adam just smirks. "You love it," he replies, and reaches out to take Sauli's hand where it rests on the table.

"Yes. I do," he says, his voice softening with genuine feeling, and Adam catches his breath. Five years. Five years and he still thanks all the powers in the universe every day for bringing him Sauli.

The lava cake is gone, the last delicious taste licked off the spoon, and their server comes to replace the empty plate with a black check presenter. He grabs for it before Sauli can start to protest, and to his surprise, hears no complaint. Instead, Sauli is grinning again, practically glowing, and he's fidgeting in his seat like he can't wait to go.

Adam raises an eyebrow. "I know that look," he says as he slips his credit card into the little slot. "What are you thinking?"

"Mmm, nothing much," Sauli replies coyly. "Just that there might be something waiting for you when we get home. Maybe. Something you'll like."

"Baby, you _didn't!_ Tell me you didn't." They'd said no gifts. There's nothing they need, nothing they want. And besides, it's always more fun to shop together anyway.

The server brings their check back and wishes them a good night, and Sauli gives her his sunniest grin, the one that works on everyone from babies to grandmothers and everyone in between. She walks away with a smile on her face, and Adam could swear she gives Sauli a wink when she thinks Adam isn't looking. He shakes his head. And they call Adam the charming one.

"I couldn't help it," Sauli says then, turning his attention back to Adam. "It was so perfect. So... _you.”_

"But I didn't get you anything..." Adam says, feeling like the worst boyfriend ever.

Sauli stands and straightens his jacket, then leans down to place a gentle kiss on Adam's lips. "I let you buy me dinner. That's enough."

*

Most of the time, they drive themselves. Adam likes to drive, and he _loves_ his cars, and it's worth the LA traffic just for the freedom, the knowledge that they could take off at any minute in any direction, off the edge of the map where no one would find them. Not that he would. But...he could. He could.

Tonight, though, is special. Adam's grateful for the driver up front and equally grateful for the screen that separates him from the two of them, because the wine is heating its way through his blood and the chocolate is setting off good feelings in his brain and he absolutely cannot keep his hands off of his boyfriend tonight. Sauli grins into Adam's kisses and stretches out under his hands, arching into the touch as Adam's fingers work their way under his jacket and grip at his waist.

He leans over Sauli, pressing him back into the seat, and one hand starts to work its way down, around the curve of Sauli's hip, running teasingly over the hardness between his legs, and Sauli laughs through a moan.

“No time,” he says, a little breathlessly, tilting his head back and baring his neck for Adam to kiss, lick, suck.

Adam groans and bites down gently, feeling Sauli's breath hitch under his teeth. “We'll tell him to drive around the block.” Sauli's hips thrust up as Adam's touch firms, and Adam has to kiss him again, right now, lips and teeth and tongue until they're both gasping for air. “Maybe a lot of blocks.”

Sauli hums happily, and Adam's already feeling for buttons and zippers when Sauli seems to reconsider and shakes his head. “Your _surprise,_ though! I kept it secret so long, Adam, I don't think I can wait any more.”

Adam pulls back and meets Sauli's eyes in the dim light. “You're really excited about this, huh?” he asks, reaching up and stroking his fingers down the side of Sauli's face, watching him shiver at the feeling of soft fingertips over well-manicured stubble.

“You deserve something special,” Sauli says, blushing.

Adam leans in again, soft this time, gentle, kisses that are more like benediction than lust. “I have something special. Right here.”

There's cuddling, then, and quiet, the heat in Adam's blood receding into the background as he settles back into his seat with Sauli tucked comfortably under his arm. He can feel Sauli smiling against his shoulder, and he thinks back over the past few months, looking for a clue, a hint to what Sauli could be planning for him. But there's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he can identify. Sauli's done a good job. Damn it. Without the distraction of Sauli's lips, Adam's curiosity runs wild, anxious and excited and willing the car to go faster.

They tumble out of the car at the top of the driveway, and when Adam turns around from tipping the driver, Sauli is waiting for him with that _grin_ on his face, the same one that once caught Adam's attention in the middle of a crowded Helsinki nightclub. He reaches out for Adam's hands, and Adam gives them to him.

“Close your eyes,” he says. Adam opens his mouth to protest, but Sauli speaks right over him. “Nope, no whining! You have to do what I say, if you want your surprise.”

“But--”

“No buts. Eyes closed.”

Adam sighs good-naturedly, but finally he obeys, letting Sauli lead him up the walk and through the front door. Sauli tells him to wait for a minute, and Adam does, listening to the jingle of keys and the beeping of the alarm system as Sauli resets it, turning his head this way and that as Sauli turns on the lights.

“Ok. Ready?” Sauli asks, reaching for Adam's hand and pulling him just a few steps deeper into the house.

“As I'll ever be,” Adam says, feeling suddenly, inexplicably nervous.

“Open your eyes.”

At first, the light dazzles him, and Adam spends a moment blinking, waiting for his eyes to focus. Then the brightness fades, and Adam's left staring at a figure on the floor. A man. He's kneeling, naked, with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back. His hair is cut in the traditional asymmetrical fashion befitting his station, hanging to his chin on one side and buzzed short and soft on the other. His skin is as pale as Adam's ever seen, as if he's never seen the sun. And when Adam finally gets his feet to move, manages to walk in a circle around the man's unmoving form, he sees the brand clearly visible on his lower back, a simple pattern of intersecting lines that marks him forever as only one thing.

Slave.

“Do you like him?” Sauli's voice comes floating slowly to Adam's ears, as if from very far away. “I had them dye him blond – I know you like that. Shaved and certified clean, too. Only had one master before, didn't even fuck him, just used him to stand around and look pretty. I wanted him to be nice and tight for you.”

Adam can't breathe. He forces his feet to carry him around to face the kneeling form again, and Sauli takes his hand and kisses it sweetly. Adam lets his fingers tighten, holding on to Sauli, using the touch to regain his balance, bring him back to solid ground again. He hasn't had a boy kneeling for him in...since before Sauli, anyway. Years. _Years._

He takes a breath. Another. Then... “You bought me a slave.”

“Only a temporary contract. We can take him back and exchange him, if you don't like him. I thought about letting you pick one out for yourself, but then it wouldn't have been a surprise, you know?”

Adam laughs, a too-loud sound that cuts off as quickly as it bubbles up. “Yeah...it's, wow...I'm _definitely_ surprised.”

Sauli comes to stand in front of him then, blocking his view of the slave. The slave who hasn't moved, hasn't reacted once to anything they've said. Adam shoves away the analytical voice in the back of his head _(well-trained, must be to keep still like that, wonder how long he's been kneeling. If I left him here all night, would he still be holding that position in the morning?)_ and meets Sauli's eyes.

“Good surprised or bad surprised?” Sauli asks, worry creeping into his voice.

“I...” Adam doesn't know how to answer that. It's too much, all at once. But he can't let that look stay on Sauli's face, not on their anniversary. Not tonight. “I've just never had a slave before, that's all.”

Sauli opens his mouth to speak again, still looking upset, and Adam could kick himself. It doesn't matter what he's feeling right now – he can deal with that later. Right now, he's taking away all the joy and excitement Sauli's been building up all night, and that's way more important than the tangled mess that's suddenly been stirred up in his own head. He lets go of Sauli's hand and places his fingers over Sauli's lips instead, quieting him. Then he nudges Sauli to the side and steps forward again, boots just inches away from the slave's knees.

“Look at me.” He hardly recognizes his own voice as he speaks the command, lower than usual, stronger...but it feels familiar, too, in a way. An old skill long unused but still there, still lurking in his brain somewhere.

The slave raises his head instantly, looking up at Adam with wide brown eyes. His face is unexpected, in a way, an assortment of parts that shouldn't go together – sharply defined cheekbones, tiny nose turned up just slightly at the end, surprisingly plush lips that part slightly at the first sight of Adam – but somehow, it works. It all works. Adam stares for what feels like a long, long time.

Sauli presses up against his side, kissing his shoulder and asking, “So what do you think?”

Adam doesn't take his eyes away from the slave's face as he answers, his voice almost solemn. “Beautiful. Really, just...he's beautiful.”

“You're happy?”

Adam turns away from the pretty slave boy and takes Sauli up in his arms, kissing him deeply and holding him tight.

“Perfectly, amazingly, wonderfully happy. And it's all your fault,” he says, pulling Sauli's jacket off and letting it pool on the floor.

“Adam...” Sauli groans as Adam works at the buttons of his dress shirt, seeking out the warm skin underneath. “Don't you want to play with your new toy?”

“Tomorrow. Tonight, I want to play with _you.”_

Adam doesn't stop kissing Sauli all the way to the stairs, his mouth and jaw and neck, wherever his lips happen to land. Sauli is saying something over his shoulder, giving orders to the slave, maybe, but Adam doesn't listen. He knows Sauli loves him, knows his intentions were only for the very best. But this is...this is a lot of things, potentially, but the one thing it is for sure is a complication. A complication that can wait until morning. Right now, it's still their anniversary, if only for another few hours – a night meant for the simple, beautiful familiarity of the two of them in their own bed, when the rest of the world hardly even seems to exist.


	2. Chapter 2

The man who buys Tommy is small and tattooed, with a lilting accent that Tommy can't quite identify. He inspects Tommy personally, with his own hands, looking into Tommy's mouth when the trader tells him to show his teeth, nodding as Tommy's told to run and jump and stretch, watching with interest when the trader tells Tommy to stroke himself, prove that his cock works well enough to get hard. When they're finished, he sinks into a kneel, puts his hands behind his back, and breathes until his body becomes calm again, staring at a point on the floor and listening only vaguely to the conversation floating over his head.

He hasn't even been in the trading house a week. A week since Master Lowrey had pronounced him too old to remain in his household, a piece of living art to be replaced when his beauty began to fade. He can see it happening when he looks in the mirror – the faint tracks of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the skin not quite as smooth and tight and perfect as it once was. He can see why he wasn't wanted any more. He's lucky he made it as far as twenty-three in his position. Master Lowrey had been too kind.

Tommy doesn't know what to expect from this new master. He is no longer fit for display – he'll probably be put to work in some way. It's a frightening thought. Tommy doesn't know how to work. He doesn't know how to do anything but be beautiful, be looked at, and those days are clearly over now.

He thinks back to his training, almost ten years ago. He can read and write and do math, of course, and he can run and swim all right, but he's not strong. Too much muscle was not pleasing to his master's eyes. He's sure he could sweep a floor or wash a window well enough, but he's never cooked a day in his life. If he's honest with himself, though, he suspects that cooking won't be expected of him, nor any other household skills. He knows what happens to most display slaves when they outlive their beauty.

He's no virgin – his training at thirteen years old took care of that. But since then, there has been nothing, nothing but the hundreds and thousands of hands that had come through Master Lowrey's gallery, curious touches that teased, occasionally, but led nowhere and to nothing. He risks a glance at his buyer through his lashes and wonders what it would be like to be touched by his hands again. He can still feel the places where the man's fingers brushed his skin, echoes of warmth. His cock twitches again at the thought, and he forces his mind to settle. If there's one thing Tommy can do, one thing he knows he's good at, it's being still. He won't embarrass himself now, within sight of his new master for the very first time.

The negotiations wrap themselves up above him, and the two men, buyer and trader, shake hands. They leave the room without a look back, and Tommy waits on his knees until the attendants come for him.

They change his hair. He doesn't mind. It's his master's hair, to do with what he wants, but it still surprises him every time he shakes his head and a glimpse of pale yellow comes into view. The rest of the hair on his body is shaved and waxed and smoothed away, oil rubbed into the skin afterward to keep it from roughening. He's held in waiting long enough for the hair to grow back and the process to repeat itself five times, and though it's an easy existence, he can't help wondering what his master is waiting for. It's surprising, how lonely it is, with no one but other slaves to talk to, no one to focus his attention and obedience on. No purpose. He can do nothing but wait.

Finally, finally, the orders come through, and Tommy is taken from the trading house, freshly washed, dyed, and shaved, to a large white house set far back from the road. It's smaller than Master Lowrey's gallery, but no less fine. Tommy isn't surprised. He knows how high his price had been set.

The delivery man lets them into the seemingly empty house and reads to Tommy from a printed sheet of instructions.

“There,” he says, pointing to the center of the marble floor in the entrance way. “You're to wait there until told otherwise. Oh, and I'll take the clothes. Property of the house, you know.”

Tommy nods and strips out of the standard-issue white shirt, pants, and shoes, and hands them over. The man takes them in a messy bundle and turns to leave again, locking the door behind him and leaving Tommy alone.

He looks around. The house is darkening with the setting sun, and it's still completely silent. Empty, has to be. He could probably...no one would know if he took a quick look around, would they? It's the first new place he can remember outside of the gallery and the trading house, and he's so curious...

Then he shakes his head roughly and rubs hard at his eyes. Six weeks in the trading house have made him lax. He has his orders. It would be horrible to fail his new master on his very first day. Besides, there could be cameras. The gallery had cameras. Even on a slow day, when sometimes the halls were entirely empty, there could be no movement, not the twitch of a finger or a shift of weight. Tommy remembers very clearly what failing to hold his position would mean. He has no desire to tempt fate and repeat that ordeal tonight.

He sinks to his knees, shivering a little at the cold touch of marble, and settles into the old familiar position. Then he waits.

Time goes funny then, in the growing dark and the never-changing silence. It's a trick he's learned through many long days of acting as a living statue. Thinking about the time passing, feeling it go by...all of that is useless, meaningless. Better to just let go, let his mind detach and float along like the lazy wash of rain down a window. It's almost like being asleep, wakeful dreaming while his body does its job and holds its position.

The pain comes to his knees first, easy enough to ignore. Eventually, his legs begin to ache, and he focuses on his breathing until the hurt fades away into numbness, leaving nothing behind. He settles into the void and lets himself float again.

He startles when the noise comes at the door, the clatter of a key in the lock, but it's a momentary lapse and he recovers before anyone sees. He's not sure why he expected his new master to be alone, but that clearly isn't the case now. The accented voice he remembers is mingled with another voice, American, laughing and asking questions as lights come on and their footsteps come closer. Tommy keeps his eyes fixed on the ground even as curiosity tears at him from the inside. He will see when they want him to see and no sooner.

Three more footsteps and a pair of boots appears on the floor, just where Tommy's eyes are resting, black and what looks like...snakeskin? Whatever they are, they shine in the lamplight, and they make a satisfying click as their owner walks around him in a slow circle. Inspection. Of course. Tommy holds his breath and waits.

The boots stop again, and Tommy hears the accented voice coming from off to the side, repeating words that he recognizes as the slave trader's. Selling points. Maybe...is he being sold again? But it's too soon for that, surely. _Surely._

“You bought me a slave.”

The new voice comes down from directly above him, and Tommy can't decipher the emotions behind it – more shocked than anything, if he had to guess. He feels much the same way himself, paying attention now, trying to keep up. He's spent five weeks thinking of the man who bought him as his new master, and now it seems like that's not the case at all. Panicky vertigo washes over him, and he swallows hard and breathes deep, trying to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. Suddenly, he wants more than anything to be back in the gallery, where every day was the same, where he always knew what was waiting for him at the next sunrise.

Feet shuffle and voices go back and forth, and Tommy loses track of them in his dizziness. Everything goes hazy until finally, through the uncertainty, an order comes down, firm and strong like a beam of sunlight on a foggy day.

“Look at me.”

Tommy doesn't think, just obeys, moving through the stiffness in his neck to meet the eyes of a man he has never seen before. The owner of the snakeskin boots and the commanding voice. Tommy doesn't have to be told a word to know who he is, buyer or no buyer.

_Master._

Tommy wants to take in every detail, but he doesn't dare let his gaze waver. He can see eyes, of course, dark-lined and sweeping over his face, and a strong nose, and a shock of black hair. He's young, for a master, so much younger than Master Lowrey. And, too...Tommy has lived his life among beautiful people, the most beautiful money could buy. This face could have commanded a room in the gallery all its own.

“Beautiful. Really, just...he's beautiful.”

The voice again, and Tommy almost jumps, startled how closely the words parallel his thoughts. His body tenses, and he wonders if he's going to be touched now. He _wants_ to be touched now. 

Instead, the man turns away and starts talking to his companion, talking and touching and kissing. Tommy watches, as he hasn't been told to look away. Their kisses grow deeper, more intense, and they start moving toward the staircase behind them, away from Tommy without another word. For a moment, he thinks they're going to leave him here, kneeling on the marble without even an order to follow. Then the smaller man meets his eyes, and a stream of accented words comes flowing back toward him all in a rush.

“The guest room is down the hall and to the right, just make yourself comfortable, whatever you need. I...ok, baby, I'm coming, I'm coming,” he says, trailing off into muffled laughter. And then they're gone, kissing their way up the stairs, and Tommy is alone again.

The first slow attempt at standing is a miserable failure. He doesn't make it one step before his numbed-out legs send him right back to the floor, and he lands hard on one hip, wincing and hoping it won't leave a mark. A few moments of shaking his legs and rubbing feeling back into the muscles help immensely, and the second try is much better, though he still feels uncertain on his feet. It's not just his body, though. It's everything. It's the newness of the house. It's the long wait for what couldn't have been more than five minutes of attention. It's the fact that he doesn't even know his new master's name. And...'make yourself comfortable'? It's the strangest order Tommy's ever been given, one he doesn't have the first idea how to follow.

After a momentary internal debate, he decides that all he can do is follow the directions he's been given, even though the room down the hall and to the right can't possibly be meant for him. It's as richly decorated as the rest of the house, and the centerpiece is a huge bed covered in soft sheets and a truly excessive number of fluffy pillows. This isn't slave quarters. This...Tommy doesn't know what this is. But the day has been long and difficult, and finally the exhaustion wins out over the confusion and uncertainty.

It doesn't feel right to slide into the bed like he belongs there, so Tommy lays down on top of the covers and curls himself into a ball, touching as little as possible in case he's not supposed to be there at all. He's asleep in minutes, and the last thing that goes through his mind before he succumbs is an image. A color. Blue-green-gray. The shifting, in-between color of his master's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Sex is good.

Sex means Adam doesn't have to think about the man _(boy? How old is he, anyway?)_ downstairs. The one he apparently _owns._ But try as he might, it can't last forever, and by the time he and Sauli are cleaned up and comfortable again, cuddled close in the middle of their bed, unwanted thoughts are starting to wriggle their way back into Adam's happy afterglow.

He could go to him right this minute. Right now. Just get up and walk downstairs and...he doesn't even know. Do anything, he supposes. Anything he can think of. The thought is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, and his arms tighten around Sauli of their own volition.

“What's wrong?”

Sauli's voice isn't a surprise when it comes. Adam's wound up so tense Sauli can probably feel it everywhere they touch. And anyway, Sauli's always been good at reading him, knowing what's going on in his head sometimes before Adam does himself.

But this is stupid, not even worth getting into a discussion about. He turns his head to nuzzle Sauli with the tip of his nose, smelling the familiar, grounding scent of his hairspray.

“It's nothing, baby. Go back to sleep.”

“Adam.” Sauli's voice is firm, and Adam can tell he can see right through the denial. “Will you tell me, please?”

He sounds more curious than anything, and Adam hugs him tighter, wishing he didn't have to say anything at all, knowing he has to. “I don't want to seem ungrateful...” he says, hesitant. Then he stops, not sure what to say next.

“But?” Sauli prompts.

“But...I don't know. Just...a _slave._ It's so...don't you think it might make things weird? You know, with us?”

Sauli laughs – actually _laughs,_ and Adam doesn't even know how to respond to that as Sauli props himself up on one elbow and looks down into Adam's face. “No, of course not. Why would it?”

Adam looks away. “I...I guess I just thought...”

“What?”

He groans. “I'm just being stupid, forget it. Can we go to sleep now?”

Sauli reaches down and takes Adam gently by the chin, turning his face up again and kissing him gently on the lips. “Tell me what's stupid. I want to know.”

Adam chases the kiss, and for a while, Sauli lets him. Then he eases back on the pillow and sighs. “Baby...I just can't help thinking about what it might mean. I haven't been with anyone else since before we were together. You know that, right?” Adam asks, irrationally anxious for a moment, needing to hear the answer.

“Of course,” Sauli replies. “You would never cheat on me.”

Adam shakes his head. “No, I wouldn't. And I guess I just don't understand how this is any different. Or why you would _want_ me to...be with someone else.”

Sauli has a different smile on his face now, fond and affectionate, the one he gets when Adam mispronounces his Finnish or changes his mind for the fourth time about what pair of black boots to wear. “Such a romantic,” he says, and kisses Adam again. “You can't cheat on me with a slave, Adam. It's like saying you could cheat on me with...with the _toaster._ Maybe you love nice warm toasted bagels a lot. But it's not even close to this. To us.”

“But...you...”

Sauli narrows his eyes, as if a new thought has just occurred to him, and Adam holds his breath. “Wait a minute. You don't think...tell me you don't think this is because I don't want you any more.”

Adam tenses again. It hasn't been clear in his mind until this very moment, but now that Sauli's said it, he realizes it's true. His voice goes unintentionally defensive when he replies. “Well, you did buy me someone else to fuck!”

And then Sauli's laughing again, full-body laughing, burying his face in Adam's chest to muffle the sound. He's still giggling as he starts to talk, words leaking out in between gasps of breath. “You stupid boy,” he says. “After tonight – after _all that,_ the car and the stairs and the bed and the shower and everything – you could still think a thing like that?”

Adam smiles despite himself. “I guess it does sound a little ridiculous when you say it that way.”

“I want you, Adam. I always have. I always will.”

“So why...?”

Slowly, Sauli's laughter fades, and his face becomes still and serious, though no less fond. “Because there are things you want that I can't give you. And you should have everything you want. All of it.”

Adam's whole world goes frozen. When he can get his mouth to work again, he asks, “You think you're not _enough_ for me?”

Sauli shakes his head. “No. I think you would have gone your whole life without saying a word about it. I know about the things you did before we were together, Adam. Some of them, anyway. And I can tell you miss it sometimes.”

Adam opens his mouth to protest, but Sauli shakes his head again. “No, let me finish. What we have...it's not that. It's so, so not that. S & M, whatever you want to call it. But just because that's not us doesn't mean you should have to go without it forever.”

There's quiet for a long moment, and when Adam finally speaks, it feels like a decision has been made, sometime between the last word and this.

“I would have.”

“I know. And that's what makes the difference,” Sauli answers, cuddling up close to Adam again and closing his eyes.

“And you're really sure...?” Adam asks. There can't be any doubt about this. None.

Sauli answers sleepily, like he's bored of the conversation now, ready to move on. “Lots of couples have slaves, Adam. You don't have to touch him if you don't want to. Sell him back if you like – that's your choice to make.”

And with that, Sauli goes quiet, and his breathing goes slow and even, the peaceful sound of deep, unencumbered sleep.

*

Adam is still awake an hour later, thinking.

He's never been ashamed of his past, the clubs and the leather and the boys, all those boys on their knees. And there's a part of him that still thinks about those things sometimes, sure – when he's jerking off, or bored and amusing himself with idle fantasy, or now and then in half-remembered dreams. But it's not something he's dying without, not something he _needs._

Still. Maybe he doesn't have to need it, not when it's been practically _(literally)_ placed at his feet, freely given.

He has the best boyfriend in the entire history of the world. He's sure of it.

Sauli doesn't wake up as Adam slips out of bed, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor, hands sure in the darkness as he pulls on a pair of soft cotton pants. He keeps his mind carefully blank as he walks downstairs, not realizing until he reaches the ground floor that he doesn't even know where to find the slave.

 _The slave._ It's weird to keep calling him that, even in his own head – almost surreal. Adam owns a man – _owns_ – and he doesn't even know his name. Doesn't even know if he has one at all. He's never owned a slave himself, but that doesn't mean he hasn't heard stories. Masters with so many slaves they call them by numbers instead of names. Slaves who live their lives not as men and women, but as dogs, ponies, even pigs – who go so long without speaking they eventually forget how to use their voices at all. Whole _galleries_ of slaves, lining the walls like paintings line the walls of a museum.

Adam wonders if his slave has a name. If he can speak. If he's beautiful enough to be shown off like a masterful work of art, worth his price just to be looked at and nothing more.

It's just then that he finds the right room, the door halfway open, as if in indecision. Inside, a figure lays on the bed, unobscured by any covering, pale skin catching the light from the hallway and seeming to glow against the backdrop of darkness.

His face is turned toward the door, lax with sleep, and a shock of something goes all through Adam, something he can't quite define. He's beautiful enough to be in a gallery, Adam's slave is. But Adam doesn't want to just look. _Can't_ just look.

He enters the room slowly, his eyes fixed, his fingers practically twitching with the urge to grab the hair that falls over the slave's forehead and twist it as hard as he can, force him to show his face, show Adam those impossibly wide, dark eyes again. His cock is half-hard already, as if he hasn't just finished having sex not even two hours ago, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Images flit through his head, one after another, almost too quickly to follow, the greatest hits of every jerk-off fantasy Adam's ever had. He could live them, right now. Any of them. All of them. Take his pick.

But it's like having a buffet of all his favorite foods laid out in front of him, like standing in the middle of Skingraft's entire collection and being told he can have any jacket he wants – he doesn't even know where to _begin._

He's still standing there, thinking, when the slave stirs, wide brown eyes blinking open and meeting his own.


	4. Chapter 4

For a long moment, Tommy isn't sure if he's awake or still dreaming.

He's still a little disoriented when he slides off the bed and onto the floor, back onto his knees. It's sloppy, embarrassingly so. He should have taken another step, knelt closer to where his master is standing. Shouldn't have tossed so much in his sleep – he can feel the messy tangle of his hair, hanging awkwardly over his face. Probably shouldn't have presumed to sleep in the bed at all.

His instinct is to apologize, for any of it, _all_ of it – but he hasn't been told to speak, and he's not so out of practice as to forget the first rule, the one that had been engraved above the door of the slave quarters at the gallery: slaves should be seen and not heard. He stares at the floor and keeps his silence.

Bare feet come toward him with soft steps, and Tommy shivers without knowing quite why. It's like being a child again – he knows nothing. _Nothing._ His stomach twists sickeningly and his jaw clenches. Whatever his new master chooses to do with him, it will be better than this uncertainty, this not knowing. He closes his eyes and wishes they could just skip this, get to a place of familiarity and comfort and routine. That, he can do.

Fingers slide slowly into his hair, gentle or hesitant, impossible to tell, and Tommy tries not to gasp. He doesn't quite manage it.

_“Fuck.”_

His master's voice is low and raw, and his fingers tighten, to the point of pain and past it. He holds his breath and swallows hard and keeps very, very still.

“Let me...let me see your face.”

Tommy follows the pull on his hair and lets his face be turned up. He should keep his eyes down, he should, no matter how anxious he is to see his master's face again. But it's late, and he's still half asleep, and he wants to _see._ He looks.

What he finds is not quite the same face he'd seen before, out in the hall. Freckles scatter everywhere, visible even in the dim light. Eyes, unlined, look wider and younger. Hair falls in loose half-wet spikes. He is so much shorter without the boots, without the sculpted hair – and yet he's still tall enough to be intimidating. He would look down on Tommy even if they were both standing. Tommy shivers again. There's something appealing about that. Something right.

Tommy is well familiar with what lust looks like. Many people came to the gallery just for that reason – men, women, sometimes even couples, whispering and pointing as they moved from one exhibit to another. There were a few, over the years, who had taken a liking to Tommy specifically, who had come back time and again to stand in front of his alcove and tell him about what they'd like to do to him. If they could. If he were theirs. Most of the time, he'd hardly listened, lost in a half-trance born of boredom and distance. None of it mattered. They could never touch him.

The look in his master's eyes now is different – hot, urgent, and _immediate._ He can touch Tommy. He _is_ touching Tommy, right now, and it's all Tommy can do not to press up into it, looking for more. He wasn't sure, not until this moment, but it turns out he _does._ He does want more. His cock is hard, and there are sharp points of pain where his master's grip is the tightest, and the two seem to be connected, somehow, jagged lighting bolts of electric sensation running all through him and making it hard to breathe.

He has a sudden incongruous moment of gratitude. It's good that there are no other slaves in this house, that he's the first and only one. He knows what most slaves think of the ones who want it – who _enjoy_ it. What they can do.

“God, your...your fucking _mouth...”_

The hand in his hair pulls him closer, and Tommy goes, easy, swaying forward and closing his eyes. His lips part of their own volition, and his breath is an audible rush in the stillness of the room. In another moment there will be heat and wetness and _touch,_ an inevitable conclusion he's been waiting for most of his life, and he just needs it to _happen,_ everything, anything to break the tension shuddering between them like overburdened wire.

And then, suddenly, the hand in his hair lets go, and Tommy has to catch himself on one hand as he struggles to regain his balance. He finds his position again as quickly as he can and braces himself, head properly bowed again. Something wrong, must be. He...he doesn't know. He's never been in this house before. Somewhere deep in his chest, he feels like crying, but the feeling doesn't make it to his eyes.

The touch of fingertips under his jaw is shocking in its lightness. Tommy lets himself be guided, and when he raises his head again, he can't help but gasp. His master's eyes look back, level with his own, his crouching position not a kneel but unsettlingly close. This means...Tommy feels himself go tight all over. He doesn't know what this means.

“What's your name?”

Tommy swallows. His master's voice is different now, higher and easier. It doesn't sound like a command. It sounds like a question.

He clears his throat quickly, but his voice still sounds rough with sleep and disuse when he finally answers. “Tommy. Joe. Tommy Joe.”

A short laugh, and then his master's smiling, the kind of smile that goes all the way up to his eyes and changes the look of his whole face. “Nice to meet you, Tommy Joe. I'm Adam. But you probably knew that.”

Tommy bites his lip. Was he supposed to know his master's name? He searches quickly for the proper response, but finding nothing, he decides that it wasn't really a proper question and just keeps quiet. His eyes keep wanting to drift away, but his master – Adam, too familiar and strange a term even in Tommy's own head – isn't breaking his gaze, and Tommy _can't._

“Come on, get up,” Adam says. “Let's...here, sit on the bed.”

Adam stands up and offers a hand to Tommy. He takes it without thinking, and in the next moment Adam's pulling him to his feet like he weighs nothing at all. They sit side by side on the edge of the bed, and Tommy wraps his arms around his middle – the room seems colder now, and it's all he can do to keep his shivering from becoming obvious.

“I'm sorry,” Adam says, still smiling, though it's softer now. “I don't really know how to do this. I've never had a slave before.”

Adam's hand moves across the small space between them, fingers brushing Tommy's knee. It almost tickles.

“It's my boyfriend, you know? He has these ideas sometimes that I just don't get, like, at all. I know he grew up with slaves in the house, and it wasn't a big deal, but still. Like, if he bought himself a slave...I don't think I could deal with that. It just doesn't seem _right,_ to be with someone else.”

Adam pauses, clearly waiting for a response. Tommy gives him a little nod, a little shrug, and hopes it's enough. Now that the adrenaline rush of anticipation is gone, much more unpleasant sensations are taking over. The chill on his skin. The empty twist of his stomach. And his head seems to be spinning again...he silently thanks Adam for letting him sit down and tries to pay attention.

“The thing is, I can't just sell you back. I don't want him to think I'm not grateful. He was so excited to show you to me, you should have seen him.” Adam's eyes go a little hazy, staring off into the middle distance, and his smile changes into something full of affection and warmth. Tommy looks away. It's not a smile for him.

After a moment, though, Adam's eyes snap back to Tommy's face, all earnest concern. “I don't want you to think it's because of you, though! Sauli knows what I like, and...he did a good job. If it wasn't for...I mean, you really are...”

Adam's hand leaves Tommy's knee and comes up to cup his face, and Tommy closes his eyes and presses into the touch, letting all the confusion and sickening rejection of Adam's words fade to the background, just for a moment.

Then Adam's voice changes, and suddenly he's closer to Tommy, right up against him, and his hands move to stroke Tommy's bare arms vigorously up and down. “You're _freezing,_ is what you are! Tommy, you should have said something, or at least put on some clothes, or...”

Adam pulls Tommy right into his lap and wraps his arms around him, and Tommy can't even breathe, can't find the words to tell Adam he doesn't have any clothes, that his attire belonged to the trading house and went back to them when he arrived here. The room is spinning more now, and his head feels so light, like it could float right off his body and bounce along the ceiling...way up there. He tries to remember the last time he ate or drank and can't. A night spent kneeling, and days of nerves before that, and now this, his body failing on him – but he's not sorry. His master, who would sell him right back if he could settle his conscience about it, is holding him close, like he's wanted, and he can't be sorry at all.

Adam is murmuring in his ear, then, and Tommy latches onto the words, uses them to ground himself. “Ok. Ok, Tommy Joe. We're gonna get you all fixed up. That's something you're gonna learn about me – I take care of my things.”

Something in Tommy relaxes at the words, and he lets himself float, gives himself over to the capable hands of Adam. Of Master.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very late in saying so, but I'm eternally grateful to @silentdescant for her support as pre-reader, beta, and cheerleader. I couldn't do it without you, darling!

Sauli wakes up alone. For a moment, his sleep-hazed mind thinks that Adam's on tour, off traveling the world somewhere and leaving him to this, a too-big bed in a too-big house. In the next moment, he remembers. He isn't alone in the house at all - quite the opposite. He stretches and smiles to himself. Adam's so obvious, even when he's insisting otherwise. No way he could resist.

Sliding out of bed, Sauli pulls on a robe against the early-morning coolness of the house and makes his way downstairs. He goes to the kitchen first, putting water on to boil for tea and then standing in front of the open fridge. Omelets this morning, maybe. Spinach and Boursin. And there's still enough bread left for toast, if one of them takes the heel.

Eventually, though, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he turns down the hall, toward the guest room. The door is open when he gets there, and he stops just outside the frame and stares at what he finds. He's not sure what he expected to see. Something salacious, perhaps - maybe even pornographic. A peek into Adam's suppressed desires, the things he's been denying himself since the two of them committed exclusively to each other all those years ago.

What he finds is more shocking than anything he's been imagining. Far more.

Adam is in bed with the slave boy. Not fucking him. Not sleeping. Just...holding him in his arms, holding him close. Like a lover. His eyes meet Sauli's from across the room, startlingly blue in the dim morning light, and his lips purse in a near-silent "shh."

Sauli comes closer and leans down to kiss the expression off Adam's lips. "You know," he whispers, "if you just wanted to cuddle..."

Adam gives him a complicated look, but his face relaxes as soon as Sauli breaks into a half-smile, letting Adam know he's only teasing. Adam shrugs minutely with one shoulder and whispers back. "He was so cold. I had to warm him up."

"Is he warm now?" Sauli asks, quirking an eyebrow down at the pair of them.

"Um." Adam turns to give the slave a searching look, as if expecting to see his body temperature displayed on his forehead or something. "Yeah, he's good."

"Then you should get up and come let me cook you breakfast," Sauli says, reaching down to give Adam a hand.

Adam slowly unwraps his arms from around the slave's shoulders and lets Sauli pull him out of bed. He's big and warm and it's so easy for Sauli to let himself sink into the embrace, so comfortable. He can hardly remember what life was like before this, before they were _them._ The hug lasts for a long time, neither one of them wanting to pull away.

"You know," Adam says eventually, "it's not our anniversary any more. You don't have to cook for me."

Sauli laughs softly. "Since when have I ever needed an excuse?"

At that, Adam concedes, cocking his head and finally breaking their embrace. "Point taken," he says. "Go on then, baby, go do your magic." Then he glances down at the bed and its still-sleeping occupant, a hesitant look on his face. "I should probably..."

"Yes, yes, take care of your pet. Just don't take too long - eggs are hard to keep hot," Sauli says, and leaves Adam to do the waking.

*

Sauli's pouring juice when they finally make it into the kitchen, Adam still barefoot in his sleep-pants and a black t-shirt and the slave dressed in a set of Adam's old clothes, faded and hanging off his narrow frame.

"You dressed him," Sauli says, a little surprised, setting two full glasses on the table.

Adam meets his eyes. "Was I not supposed to?"

"The slaves were always naked in our house. But he's yours, Adam. You can do whatever you want. That's kind of the point."

Sauli takes a seat and picks up his fork, and Adam crosses the tile and sits next to him in his usual spot. The slave boy slides gracefully into a kneel on Adam's left, and Sauli can't help but feel pleased watching him perform the simple action. There had been other slaves, younger, some of them, with better pedigrees. But he'd had a feeling about this one, still young, still beautiful, but old enough to be properly trained, to be easy for a first-time owner like Adam. It was the right choice. He's sure of it.

He's already several bites into his omelet when he realizes Adam isn't eating. Adam is just...staring.

"Adam? Something wrong?" Sauli asks.

Adam shakes his head, but it doesn't look like no. It looks like confusion, like...like being lost.

"Not wrong, just...really fucking _weird,"_ Adam says. "He just watches while we eat? Isn't he hungry?"

"He will eat if you give him food," Sauli says. It's the simplest thing in the world, like explaining that the sky is blue or that water is wet. A basic truth. But Adam's face is still tense, and he still hasn't touched his food. Sauli sighs to himself. He'd thought this gift would be fun, a little diversion to shake up the routine of their lives. He hadn't counted on having to hold Adam's hand every step of the way.

"But..."

Sauli sets his fork down on the plate with a clatter and gives Adam his full attention. "You don't have to do this, Adam. You won't offend me. We can take him back."

Finally, Adam tears his eyes away from the slave at his side, who's behaving admirably considering the conversation. He hasn't raised his head once.

"No, I...I don't want to do that. I just don't want to do anything wrong, either. It's kind of a lot to take on all at once, you know?" Adam says.

Sauli pauses a moment. "Well, if it helps, maybe you could think of him like a dog. You've had pets before, right?"

"Yeah," Adam says, still sounding a bit uncertain.

"And they eat when you feed them, right?"

Adam rolls his eyes. "Now you're making fun of me."

Sauli's eyes go wide. "No, Adam, of course I'm not." There's a pause, long and awkward, and finally he takes a breath and breaks the silence again. "Honestly? I thought you'd be a natural at this. I thought you'd enjoy it."

Adam stares down at his cooling omelet. Eventually, he asks, "Why?"

 _"Why?"_ Sauli can't keep the surprise out of his voice. "Adam, you must realize how you...how you _are._ You call it perfectionism. I would call it something else."

Sauli pushes back his chair and stands, going to Adam and putting his arms around him, hugging Adam's face to his belly. "You spend so much time trying not to let that... _perfectionism_ take over. Indulge it, for once. Follow that instinct." Adam takes a deep breath, and Sauli leans down to whisper right in his ear, so soft it hardly moves the air at all.

"Make him perfect."

He lets one moment pass, still and silent, and then returns to his seat and his meal, leaving Adam to decide. His heart is pounding, though he couldn't for the life of him explain why. This feels important, like a tipping point. Like a decision. He takes a sip of juice, and watches Adam from out of the corner of his eye, and waits.

There is a small pile of fruit on Adam's plate next to the omelet, grapes and strawberries, and after a moment Adam picks up a grape and begins to roll it between two fingers, back and forth, as if considering. He looks down again, at the slave.

"Tommy," he says. "Look at me."

The slave obeys, turning his face up to Adam's. Sauli can't see his eyes from where he's sitting, but the rest of his face is clear, and he watches as Adam reaches down and presses the grape against the slave's lips.

"Eat," Adam says after a moment, a little breathless but no less commanding for it.

The slave's lips part around the fruit, round and wet and almost obscene as it disappears into the darkness of his mouth. He chews quickly, and swallows, and as soon as his mouth is clear again he speaks, quiet and respectful.

"Thank you, master."

Sauli's eyes glance quickly to Adam's face, just in time to see his eyes blink shut, his tongue dart out to lick his lips. When he opens his eyes again, there's a heat in them that reminds Sauli of drugs, of sex, of the burning air of the desert. It reminds him of old pictures of Adam, ones from before they'd met, and the way he always seemed to be the tallest one in the room. _Above_ the rest.

"Sir." Adam's voice, and Sauli can read the unspoken question in the curve of the slave's lips, the slight tilt of his head. "Sir, not master, from now on."

The slave bows his head again. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"And that's enough thanking. I only want to hear it if you really mean it. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. That's...that's good." Adam reaches a hand down, then, cupping the slave's cheek in his broad palm, and the slave presses his face into the touch, the first noticeable breach of decorum Sauli's seen yet. Sauli looks up to Adam's face again, wondering how he will react, but Adam doesn't seem to mind. In fact, Adam is smiling, the warm approving smile that Sauli associates with lazy mornings and fresh tea and notes of falsetto that really hit the sweet spot.

They pass the rest of the meal that way, Adam alternating between bites of his own and passing bits and pieces down to the slave. It's a bit awkward at first, but eventually Adam seems to get the hang of it, and by the time they're finishing the last of the toast, Adam seems as comfortable as if he's been doing it his whole life, chatting easily with Sauli about this and that while running his fingers through the long hair of the slave boy, who's practically purring at the attention.

"You see?" Sauli asks as he stands to gather the dishes and stack them in the sink for Adam to take care of later. That's the deal. He cooks. Adam cleans. Fair.

"See what?" Adam asks, sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed, the picture of satisfaction.

"I knew you'd be a natural."

Adam looks at Sauli, then down at the slave at his side - fed, clothed. Warm. Happy, if the expression on his face is anything to go by.

"Maybe you're right," Adam says. "I should listen to you more."

At that, Sauli has to kiss him, look him in the eyes and bury his fingers in his hair and lick the last taste of tea off his lips.

"You should listen to me always," Sauli says, smiling through another kiss.

And Adam laughs, and smiles back.


End file.
